This Is the Chronicle of the Falsely Accused
by LetMeWriteYouAStory
Summary: John H. Watson is living in London in 1939 when Britain declares war on Germany, and World War Two begins. He enlists on the Allied side as an army doctor, seeking adventure and honor. But in a losing battle, John becomes a prisoner of war in a German camp. Eventually, his path will cross with a wanted criminal with a terrible history. T for language, violence/gore/warfare, etc.
1. Fighter Planes

**Hi there! :D Thanks so much for checking out my story! I hope you love it, and hopefully I'll be updating it weekly, although it might be difficult because it's a busy time of year and this story's taking a lot of research. But stick with me through this! :)**

**Beware: there's probably going to be angst. And feelsy parts. And cliffhangers. And possibly gore. Because those things are my favorite. BEWARE.**

**I also promise I won't do any author's notes during or after the chapter, because I hate reading something really dramatic, and then an author's note pops up and ruins the mood. Ew.**

**Feel free to review, we all love 'em!**

**Also, I'm just going to say now, you will find no lemons in this fanfic. No me gusta "lemons." Lemons _sour_ character relationships for me. (See what I did there?) ****So please, go pick lemons elsewhere. **

**I think that's about it... :)**

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**This Is the Chronicle of the Falsely Accused.**

**Chapter One: Fighter Planes.**

**August 7th, 1914. Bridgewater, Britain. **

She stood at a table, in a kitchen covered in new wallpaper. Right beside a window, cool, lazy air brought in a fruity aroma. The woman bent over her work, kneading dough firmly with sore palms, and continuously pushing her long blonde tresses back over her shoulder absentmindedly. Flour was scattered through her hair and across the front of her blue apron, but she hardly noticed its presence. Her mind was far away.

_He cannot go. He mustn't go._

The woman looked up at the folded newspaper on the other end of the table. The title was bold and black and excited: "**WE'VE DECLARED WAR ON THE CENTRAL POWERS!**" She rubbed her eyes with her little finger to keep herself from tearing up. The idea of her husband going to off to fight was a terrifying one, yes. But who was she to stop him from standing up for justice?

Because if there was one thing the two of them believed in, it most certainly was justice.

From upstairs, there was a string of muffled thuds followed by an angry yell. Margaret was well accustomed to this commotion from her children, and carried on. When she heard the sound of distraught whimpering, however, she stepped back from the baking, attempted to brush the flour from her hands, and headed out the door into the dining room.

Right on cue, Margaret heard unsteady feet come stumbling down the hall stairs, and seconds later a compact little figure came into the room, tears rolling down plump cheeks.

His hair was dirty blonde, short and scruffy, and one side of his face was distinctly redder than the other, like he had been slapped. Just three years old, he wore a light jumper and dark trousers. He ran over to his mother and clumsily clung to her skirt with pudgy hands.

The woman bent down, doing the routine check for any cuts, bumps or bruises. Finding none, she placed her hands on either side of his face.

"Darling, what's the matter?"

The chubby child hiccuped despairingly. Margaret held him and patted his back with sympathy.

"Harry keeps-_hic_-taking-_hic_-my planes."

The woman sighed, turning her gaze towards the second level of the house. Harry did love to create trouble. She stood, pulling the stocky boy into her arms with her. He was covered now in a thin layer of flour, and she struggled o stifle a laugh.

"Alright, alright," she consoled her child with false seriousness, tapping his round nose. "Come on, John, let's go talk to nasty Harry. We'll get your planes back."

Little John did not seem convinced. As they approached the upstairs bedroom, he kept eyeing the doorway with suspicion on his features.

Margaret carried him into Harry and John's shared nursery. It was cozy and green, with a large open window that made the room glow like the heavens. The naughty seven year old sat content on John's bed, her light blonde curls springing as she moved a little red wooden plane through the air with spluttering noises.

Looking up and seeing her mother and her kid brother, Harry scowled, clutching the toy ever tighter.

Margaret set John on the floor. He crossed his arms and puffed out his little chest in determination.

"Harry," Margaret began.

Harry only turned to face the wide window. The plane spun around in her fingers with agility.

"Harry," Margaret repeated, "give John back his planes."

"No."

Before Margaret could insist otherwise, John had tottered across the room to the low bed. "Please, Harry?" He tried to pull himself up, but landed back on the floor with a bump.

"No."

"But they- they're mine!" John protested. His brows were furrowed; his dark blue eyes glittered with moisture.

"Why?" Harry cried suddenly, turning to face her brother with malice in her green eyes. "Why do only you get them? Why can't they be mine, too?"

Margaret stood back, simply observing. It was unusual that the duo argued over anything without it coming to blows.

John's young mind seemed stuck on the question. Finally, he answered, "Because... because Daddy gave them to me. Just me! So they're mine!"

Harry sniffled almost furiously. She picked at a button on her skirt.

"Well, can't I play with them at all?"

John whined, and fiddled with his hands, clearly not wanting his big sister to have his special planes from his father.

But Harry used John's hesitation to attack again. Tossing the airplane aside, she scrambled to the edge of the bed, hanging over John. The bed creaked as she leaned further and further forward.

"Well, you're being selfish. Daddy wouldn't be selfish."

This one hit John hard. He looked from Harry, to the planes, and then to his mother, who remained silent, and back again. After much internal debate, John huffed and gave in.

"Alright, you can play with my planes. ...Not all the time, though," he added hastily, as an afterthought.

Harry grinned. John mumbled something irritably under his breath.

"What did you say?" Harry asked, not really paying attention, but already picking one of the planes back up.

"You, you still hit me," John pointed to his pink cheek, like a wounded puppy.

Margaret raised her eyebrows. "Harriet?"

Harry cringed, hurt at the use of her full name. Even her parents rarely used it.

"I'm sorry, John," she sighed under her breath, somewhat unconvincingly.

But John was now satisfied. He waddled back to his mother, and tugged on her skirts again.

"I'm like Daddy," he beamed. "Daddy isn't selfish."

Margaret chuckled. "You are like your father. Very much."

And the statement was completely true. He was a carbon copy of his father. John had the same hair, the same eyes, and the same large ears, everything except his father's lanky stature. The way he stood, and even the way his face crinkled up when he was upset, very much mirrored the behavior of Hamish Watson.

John nodded. "I'll be like Daddy when I grow up, too! Just like him."

Harry scoffed as if this were the wildest of fantasies. "No you won't."

Spinning around suddenly, John flew towards the bed, and pulled himself up like a bullet, jumping in front of Harriet. "I will too! I'll be big and strong, and a soldier just like Daddy."

Margaret Watson gasped. The children weren't supposed to know about that yet. She started to step towards them.

"Please," Harry continued, "you're much too little to be a soldier! You wouldn't make it a week."

"I would!" John yelled, shoving Harry fiercely in the shoulder. "I'll be the bravest soldier! I'll have a gun and a big helmet just like Marcus' father does, and I'll be the best soldier anyone's ever heard of. Just like Daddy."

Margaret had to intervene. She hurried over, pulling John, now winding up a chubby fist, away from Harry, who laughed mockingly, sticking out her tongue.

"How did you two know about Daddy becoming a soldier?"

Margaret and Hamish had in fact only had the conversation the night before, after he had come home from work. They had been planning on telling the children soon, but not this soon.

"We stayed up," Harry chirped proudly. "We hadn't fallen asleep yet, and we heard you and Daddy talking."

Margaret sat down on the bed next to her two children. "I want you to listen to me now. Being a soldier can be very scary. Daddy's not going to be home a lot, and he might get... hurt while he's away."

"I know, John chimed in quickly, as if his mother was speaking only to him. "But Daddy will be alright. He's brave. Daddy's fighting against the bad guys."

"That's... that's right," Margaret sighed, choking up just a bit, "He is."

Harry straightened up. "When is Daddy leaving?"

Her mother put an arm around her comfortingly. "I don't know. I don't know how long he'll be gone, either. There's no way to tell." She hesitated. "Are you two... alright with Daddy's decision?"

Both children nodded easily. "I'll miss Daddy, though," Harry said, as if he were already gone.

* * *

Several minutes later, Margaret was downstairs again, shaping the bread more slowly than before. Still lost in thought, she failed to realize when John had walked into the kitchen until he uttered a sad, "Mommy?"

Margaret jumped, and turned to face the toddler. "John! Yes, what is it, love?"

John frowned, eyebrows deeply furrowed. He stepped back and forth nervously, curling his hands into fists over and over again.

"Harry says I can't be a soldier like Daddy."

There was a short silence. John sniffled, and his mother smiled, a little unsure of what to say. "Do you want to be a soldier, John?"

"Yes."

"Well," she began, crouching again in front of he little boy, "I think it doesn't matter what Harry says."

"It doesn't?" John's navy blue eyes shone. He wiped a stray tear from his red nose.

"Not even a little. If you want to be a soldier, then of course you can be. You can be whatever you want to be, John."

John blushed and grinned, showing little dimples. "I will be a soldier. I will be just like Daddy."

Margaret ruffled the little boy's hair. "John Hamish Watson, I know you will."


	2. A First Comrade

**Thanks so much for the follows, guys! It means a lot! **

**This chapter is also introduction more than anything else, so I'm looking forward to actually getting to the intense parts. :D**

**And I'm not a history expert, so there are probably some parts that aren't 100% percent correct. So if you are a history expert, or a Time Lord (Like I am, shh), I apologize for any inconsistencies I may have. :)**

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**This Is the Chronicle of the Falsely Accused.**

**CHapter Two: A First Comrade.**

**September 9th, 1939. London, England.**

John Watson loosened his tie, and unfastened the top button of his shirt with sweaty fingers. He plucked his hat from his head, fanning himself with it. He wiped sweat droplets from his forehead, and his heart thumped in his chest. The adrenaline coursing through his system combined with the unusual heat of the September London sun gave him a feeling of lightheadedness.

The line in which he stood was hardly moving. It stretched on ahead, and then around the corner for another one hundred feet or so, before ducking into the low roof of a city building. A freshly painted banner decorated the entrance:

_"London Enlistment Office!"_

The long line was composed of men and some women, all looking similarly fatigued. Yellow collections of papers stuck out of handbags, pants pockets, breast pockets, and even some belts. Many were fanning themselves with them. John's stuck out of his vest pocket, and they, like everyone else's, contained all the necessary records to enlist. Date of birth, medical history, education, you name it. John himself had spent a few years earning his liberal arts degree, and then, he'd studied for four years at St. Bartholomew's Hospital in London for medicine and surgery, with one more year, an internship, to complete his studies. He was completely qualified.

Many people in the line had removed hats and vests, and women took off their jackets and unbuttoned the collars of their dresses, not provocatively, but only for the sake of trying to keep cool.

And all around the line there were children. Some were the children of the applicants, brought along for the trip; others were just curious. They ran about chasing each other, or wheeling around toy automobiles. Some kneeled on the sidewalk, poring over newspapers. A boy and a girl nearby tossed a dirty cap back and forth.

_I should not have to fight for this,_ he though solemnly. _There should never have to be a reason to fight for this._

John pursed his lips at the thought of all the good things he was going to fight for. And the horrific lengths to which the Germans were willing to go to destroy them.

Placing his own hat back upon his blond head, his thoughts drifted to his own family. Not a wife and children, for he had neither, but a mother and a sister. He remembered when he had informed them that he was enlisting, just days ago. They had both seen his decision coming, but that hadn't made it any less difficult. Harry had taken it better, or so John had thought. She'd steeled her expression, but then hugged him longer and more firmly than she ever had before. It wasn't until the next day that John had learned that his big sister had gone out and drank until she was thrown from the bars.

His mother, though, had been a different story entirely. She had simply sobbed, and she clung to him like one would cling to their sole chance of survival. She had attempted to bribe him; she had downright begged him to stay. She could not bear to lose him, she said, not after she had lost her husband, their father, to a different war.

That was a sad story that they rarely talked about anymore.

But John had been insistent. This was his chance to be a part of something important. His father had the courage, and now John needed to follow in his footsteps. Hopefully, he would not follow them to the grave.

On top of that, there was a part of John Watson that wanted adventure, and honor. He just had to do this. He had to fight back against what he thought was wrong.

Far ahead in the line, John caught sight of a man, tall with dark curls. John felt a sense of old familiarity. He was sure he had seen this man before.

The man turned his head at that moment, showing a dark complexion and brown eyes. It was Mr. Milson. He used to worked in a shop down the road from John's home growing up. John hadn't seen him since he was a boy. He would give John and his sister sweets. He could not picture kind Mr. Milson fighting in a war. Everyone, though, it seemed, was eager to enlist. Everyone's lives were changing.

But the man directly in front of John was definitely one who he'd never previously encountered. He was a few inches taller than John, with a gray flat cap over very short dark hair. The heat and the waiting clearly had him agitated. He moved his arms from crossed on his chest, to at his sides, to in his pockets, and shifted his weight constantly.

Finally, this man turned around to John. "This is taking bloody forever," he griped, rolling his dark eyes. "I can't believe this; by the time we all get ourselves in there, Hitler will have already conquered most of the world."

John laughed, bitterly. "Well. There's certainly a morbid way to think about it."

"War's a morbid thing," said the man, squinting and looking towards the sky. His complexion was slightly tan. "I figure, at least if I'm negative about it, then I'm more likely to be surprised." He shrugged.

John nodded. The two stepped further forward in line.

"What position are you going in for?"

The man shrugged nonchalantly a second time. "I dunno. Wherever they put me, I guess. Not sure exactly what they'll do with someone like me. How 'bout you?"

John cleared his throat. "Medical doctor," he said, and nodded towards the location of the London hospital. "I studied at Bart's for seven… eight years."

The man seemed surprised. He looked at John, almost scrutinizing him. "Huh."

"What is it?"

The individual shook his head, dismissing whatever thoughts he had. "Nothing." He held out a hand suddenly. "My name's Greg. Greg Lestrade."

John smiled cordially, taking the man's hand firmly. "John Watson. Pleased to meet you."

* * *

It took a little while after that for the two to make it into the building. They were taken into two separate rooms in a long hall of doorways. John was interviewed, and his papers looked over, and the men behind the desk nodded, impressed. Then he was sent into a second room, where he was checked over for lice, illnesses, his blood pressure, heartbeat, the works.

When he was finally deemed completely healthy, save a small bruise on his side, they nodded again, and stamped his papers. John had been accepted. He was to report in a week's time to the nearby square adjacent to the train station for departure to training camp.

After all this was finished, John was walking out the back entrance, into the sun, when Greg Lestrade came up next to him again.

"Accepted," he said casually. "You?"

John smiled and held up his stamped papers as well. Mr. Lestrade nodded. "Good. I'm not very well acquainted with most of these blokes, and frankly, the lot of them look either brutal, or just weak." He tilted his head. "But you, Dr. Watson, you seem alright. See you in a week?"

And then Mr. Lestrade was gone. John had just met one of his comrades.

* * *

**September 16th, 1939.**

The week passed uneventfully, if still anxiously and sadly. John had packed the few necessary items into a suitcase, and Harry gave him her scratched up pocket watch, which she had inherited from their father. John had also received his uniform at the enlistment office, and so he tried it on quite often. He liked the way he felt wearing it, the way he immediately stood straighter, with shoulders back and chin up.

He felt like a true soldier. He felt like his father.

The day finally arrived. He was to report early on that Tuesday morning, and so was up just before the sun. Harry and his mother had come over from their own London dwellings to say goodbye. They cooked a quick breakfast for him while he gathered his things, and afterwards walked with John to the square right outside the train station.

He reported his attendance, and the stiff-postured officer nodded and checked him off from a list. John turned back to his little family. They were all he had. All he was leaving behind.

His mother looked tired and worn. But she smiled, and raised a hand to her son's cheek.

"I've been expecting this day to since you could walk." She forced a laugh, and her voice broke. "You father… he would be so incredibly proud of you."

John opened his mouth to speak, filling up with sentiment, but could not, as his mother gripped him in a hug that was fiercer than it would've looked like she was even capable of.

"Please. Come back to me," she whispered hoarsely.

John chuckled a little. He wasn't sure why. "I promise I will, Mum."

She released him, tucking a strand of graying hair behind her ear.

John turned to his sister. He was taken aback at her expression. Tears were rolling down her face, and her lip quivered with the effort she was using to not full-out cry. Had he ever seen her cry? John could not remember. She wrapped her arms tightly around herself, and looked down at her toes.

"Harry-"

"See you soon." She looked up. In her eyes he could see that it was an order. And then Harry turned and walked away, her blonde ringlets dancing in the day's cool breeze.

His mother cast him one last look. "I love you, sweetheart."

"I love you too."

And then she was gone too.

John picked up his suitcase and in little time he was climbing onto the train. The sounds of men laughing and joking around filled the car, and all of the compartments were mostly full. John wandered uncomfortably up the aisle, until the door at the other end of the car slid open loudly. Greg Lestrade came walking towards John, yet not noticing him. His luggage was in hand, and his shirt was a little disheveled. There was a faraway look in his eyes.

"Mr. Lestrade."

He jumped a little, and then his gaze focused on John. "Oh. Hello, John. Really, just Greg is fine."

"Yes, of course," John replied, still watching Greg's somewhat distracted expression skeptically. Perhaps it was just nerves. Greg pulled open a compartment door to his right, the last empty one.

He beckoned with his free hand. "Well, don't just stand there. Come on, then."

And with that, John followed Greg Lestrade, his first comrade, into the train compartment. Only minutes later the train pulled out of the station, and they were on their way. Into the war.


	3. Luger P08

Well... that hiatus was very unexpected. :O I apologize, but I was gone almost every weekend, and everyday after school I was working on projects or studying finally exams. And then, this website was giving me technical difficulties. I think it was the site... Might've just been my computer... O.o

But now I only have a couple of exams left before full-out summer, so I finally actually got to sit back down and think about writing this again. Over the last few weeks I've just been placating myself with little oneshots. Maybe I'll post them if I take too long between chapters again. :)

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**This Is the Chronicle of the Falsely Accused.**

**Chapter Three: Luger P08.**

**Fall, 1939- Spring, 1940. Britain- France.**

Basic training in Britain really hadn't been all that bad. It had taken a couple of months, and John had befriended several comrade during that time. He had stuck with Greg Lestrade, who was admittedly in somewhat better physical shape than John, at least in the beginning. Turned out he'd been a detective inspector in London, though he wasn't nearly as serious or stoic as John thought a detective inspector to be. He could be rather talkative, and liked to crack jokes. An easy fellow for John to get along with.

Afterwards, John had been moved to a different part of camp for additional training in medical care. He'd already known a lot from his years of study, but he was taught a myriad of new skills, and treatments; how to handle the countless, much more pressing situations that could happen in battle versus a domestic setting. It was morbid and quite gruesome to consider, but still, what he learnt was intriguing and quite amazing. It was like learning to handle a deadly creature, a lion that could become a reality of teeth and claws in his face within a second.

His training, however, as well as his comrades', was cut short when their troops were needed. Given little explanation, they were put first on trucks, that then took them to the trains, which carried them dutifully through the early January hills to the ships. The ships took John away from Britain for the first time in his life. He had been leaning on the railing of the top deck when the coast had vanished into a line, before it was gone completely. He was not there when the coast of France took its place on the other side of the horizon.

John's division had gone from place to place, to numerous camps, wherever help or extra men were needed. And it still had not been all that bad. Cold, sure, but no more than other winters. This was Europe. John certainly hadn't been expecting the Middle East.

One calmer day in late March, in a camp in Eastern France, not far from Belgium, John sat with Greg and another man, Mike Stamford, in the doorway of a tent on the dusty dirt, sloppily drinking tins of soup and laughing. The others had spent the day doing little jobs in camp, while John had dealt with some minor injuries gotten while other men were doing drills. Nothing too serious, just a twisted ankle. Now, the three were spending their conversation making fun of their old, rather clumsy officer.

"The old buzzard," Greg laughed, bent over and shaking with a wide grin across his features, "he shouldn't be trainin' anybody; he can hardly walk over his own toes without pitchin' face first inna dirt!"

John reached out and pulled Greg's sloshing soup can out of his hand as his friend howled. Mike was definitely the odd one out in the group, sticking with them because he and John had studied at St. Bart's together. Still, he chuckled, red-faced, right along with them.

"Oh, come on," John began, slapping his knee and passing both his can and Lestrade's to Mike. "You want pitching face first? You should've seen the likes of the man I took care of today. Whiniest patient I've ever treated, I'm sure of it. What was his name? …Sebastian Wilkes. I only-"

"Wilkes?" Greg spluttered, almost spitting out a spoonful of soup from one of Stamford's jumble of tin. "You don't mean the one with the cracky grin?"

"I do. You should have seen him, Greg. Got the toe of his boot stuck under a little root, twisted his ankle, and managed to scrape up his face too. It was really a minor problem. But he was making a fuss of it all; bloody crying like I was going to chop his leg off every time I touched him!"

"And I don't suppose you did cut it off out of sheer annoyance?" Lestrade chuckled, and turned to Mike. "Personally I'd prefer it if John had just chopped off 'is head."

John doubled over, imagining Seb Wilkes stumbling around, headless and missing a leg. "All I need is permission from Churchill," he croaked, "and I won't waste another second."

John and Greg erupted into yet another fit of hysterics, Mike still awkwardly juggling the three soup cans.

Most dinners were like this. The days were long and the work tiring and some of the other comrades ridiculous, but it could be much, much worse.

Were these the terrors of war everyone spoke about? In hushed, frightened whispers, or across bold newspaper headlines with lists of the dead, or hollered from the lips of a man drowning on his barstool?

No. They weren't. Not yet.

But the future would be.

It was an early morning in May, still dark but not much earlier than the troops would've been awakened for roll call. John had, strangely, not slept very well, and was an exhausted mess. He dressed, almost forgetting to tuck in his uniform, and he and the others headed out. A rushed announcement was made, but John hadn't heard a word. He only recalled stumbling back to the tent, gathering up equipment and supplies with Mike and Greg, and hurrying out of camp at a brisk march in a surreal daze. Onto trucks they'd gone again, and John'd slept most of the way. Finally, in a rolling train car John didn't remember boarding, John overheard what was going on. Realizing why Greg was more fidgety than normal.

The Germans were attacking the Allies' front lines in Belgium. Trying to get into France.

They were actually going into battle.

* * *

**May- June, 1940. Belgium.**

How long was a battle supposed to go?

_Hell, just not this damn long._

John shook, as he bent over the writhing patient on the table below him. The wounded were being brought in at a steady and alarming pace. This had been happening for weeks, and still there was no surrender. Night and day. At first, those in the camp had only seen the casualties, but soon they could hear the sounds of heavy artillery, planes, and eventually, machine gun fire in the distance. And in a mad panic, everyone had suddenly needed to evacuate. Taking all the supplies, and fleeing on trucks as far back as possible, and setting it all back up again. They'd done this several times, and John knew that they'd soon be pushed all the way into France.

John was scared. But more prominently, he was just angry. Angry at the damn Germans, the damn Nazis, at damn Hitler. He desperately wanted to be on the front lines, in the heat of it all.

But he was stuck here, trying to heal the innumerable wounded with supplies that were starting to slowly run out. He'd gotten next to no sleep, and his uniform was stained with the blood and gore of others. He worked as quickly as possible, huffing with frustration at it all.

There was the sound of something large thundering towards the earth. John had heard the sound of this artillery so much that he was almost numb to it. It'd ben steadily growing closer for days. Too late he realized just how much closer it sounded.

Heart-stopping thunder shuddered through the air, and everything flew apart.

John's vision was engulfed in the dusty brown of the earth, as something hit him in the chest. Choking, he flew backwards somehow; difficult to tell in the chaos. He landed on his side, the breath stolen from him. John clutched at his breast, trying to locate the exact source of the sudden pain he felt, maybe from his lungs, maybe from newly broken rib bones. He was not bleeding, nor coughing up blood, so he had to get up. He lurched to his feet, trying to position himself amidst the swirling dust and artillery fire from all directions. Which way was the right way? It didn't matter. He just had to run. Running meant he was not yet dead. That was the best he could hope for.

The dirt refused to settle, and made its way into John's eyes and throat, and he coughed violently as he ran. He could see faint outlines of tents and trucks as he raced, and the occasional body, who could be either alive or dead.

_It didn't matter right now._

Something caught his foot, and in a second there was a sting of pain and he was off balance, barely catching himself on his forearms before his head hit the ground.

Pulling himself up, he unhooked his foot, and turned and felt frantically for what had brought him down. Sure enough, it was a body. Unmoving, its stomach was drenched in dark blood. John searched until he found a gun in the crook of the man's outstretched arm. Grabbing the weapon, a Star Model 14, he hoisted himself up, and took off flying again, clutching the small French handgun like his only lifeline. Which it very well could be; his own weapon had escaped him in the explosion.

Finally the dust began to give way to clearer air, but by then John had run past the outskirts of the camp, and was surrounded by the edges of a pine forest. He was careful not to stumble a second time.

Soon, the sounds of warfare ceased. John was sweating, and his laboured breathing was taking a toll on his bruised chest. He had to stop. The silence did not, John knew, necessarily mean safety, and he threw himself behind the trunk of a tree, sliding down to the ground and putting his head between his knees as he got his bearings.

Evening was descending. Tiny stars were beginning to fade into the sky, and John allowed himself to peek around the tree trunk.

There wasn't much to see. Just trees.

He had no way of knowing here what had happened. He felt like a coward for running, but it was surviving. And although it could be suicide, he had to go back. Because he _wasn't_ a coward. This was what he'd signed up for. Greg was somewhere back there, and Mike as well.

If nothing else, he couldn't leave his comrades.

After several minutes, he started back, slowly and carefully, watching like a hawk for any movement, any splatter of red or glint of silver. He had a lot of cover in the Belgian forest, but still John felt exposed.

Voices not too far off made him travel even slower.

How long had he been walking? It felt almost infinite, though it couldn't have been very long. It was getting darker, causing trees and shapes and shadows to blend together in a blue-grey haze. This was the reason he noticed, too late, when he'd walked out to the edge of the trees.

The ground sloped gradually down about fifteen feet, before it leveled out to the roads and buildings set up at the very edge of the camp. Tents had been flattened, and craters pocked the ground. Bodies littered the earth like new-fallen autumn leaves. Germans marched along, speaking to one another, with little lines of John's surviving comrades held at gunpoint. Prisoners.

The Nazis used torches to help their vision, but they were still feeble, so John had not noticed them until now. Gasping louder than he meant to, causing a pain in his ribs, he stumbled to a halt and hurried backwards into the trees, but his heel of his heavy left boot crunched on something on the forest floor.

Several Germans spun around, immediately raising their pistols, aiming at John's brain. He heard each weapon click distinctly.

John's breath caught in his throat. Closing his eyes, he knew not to try any tricks. He raised his hands above his head. In his fear, he forgot the gun now tucked deep in his back pocket.

John had learned some German, but when these men jabbered away at him, he hardly understood a thing. Uncomprehending, he just shook his head. The men, with their strangely brimmed hats, seemed to realize his problem. Ever so courteously, they switched to English, though it was overshadowed by a heavy accent.

"Name?"

John cleared his throat, steadying his breathing. "John Watson, Doctor."

One man, clearly in charge over the others, nodded to a fellow officer, who approached John and stopped directly behind him. He felt something cold and round pressed to the back of his head.

"March."

John didn't question it. The soldier led him forward through the camp, farther and farther until they passed the destroyed tent where John had been working just about an hour ago. It was all a mess of bodies being gathered, mangled canvas and strewn supplies. Nearby was the crater than had blown away everything around it, including himself. But still John and the pushy German walked further.

At the very front of the camp, where the last of the buildings gave way to the barren battleground, Nazi soldiers swarmed everywhere like insects, rounding up still more soldiers and collecting enemy supplies. Prisoners of war were in clumps, surrounded by watchful Germans, and often wounded. Some looked angry, others defeated; some were out of it entirely, and there were still those who just looked tired. Not solely in the physical sense.

John saw a burst of movement on the outside of one of the newly imprisoned groups. He looked towards it, and couldn't believe it.

It was Greg. Right there. Alive. Blood trickled from his head across his ear and down his neck, but alive. His jacket was torn, and his uniform stained with dark brown splotches. Two Nazis were attempting holding him still as he struggled wildly, and whispered to him with threatening sneers. Why hadn't they shot him already? Though John certainly wasn't complaining.

John's surprise at seeing Greg cause him to halt, but the gun barrel thudded against his skull in agitation, and he started walking again. The Nazi seemed to be directing John towards Greg's group, and as they grew closer, John grew angrier as Greg fought harder. Suddenly, Greg's eyes moved up, noticing John. Shock caused him to stop struggling. _What did he look like?_ In spite of the situation, John glanced down at himself. He was covered in dirt, and the leftover blood from his patients, as well as the body he'd fallen over in his haste.

The body. The gun. _John still had it._

Greg unfroze, and in a rush of anger, ripped his right arm from the Nazi's grasp, swinging it around and slamming it into the left German's nose. He tried to go towards John, but the Nazis quickly recovered, grabbing Greg, the left taking his arm and wrenching him to the ground, the right wrapping his arm around Greg's neck and wrenching his head upward, as if he were trying to pop it off. Greg cried out in pain, clawing at the arm under his chin as the Nazi pulled it higher, bending down to hiss something in the man's ear. John couldn't take it anymore. With a growl he pulled out his handgun, aimed for the hissing Nazi's shoulder, and fired without a second thought.

There was a split second of triumph as John was forced backwards by the recoil. But he heard a click of a pistol behind him. _Damn._ He'd forgotten about that Nazi. Greg collapsed to the ground, gasping, and the wounded German staggered back into the prisoners, thunderstruck. But the left German? He pulled out his own weapon, swinging it towards John's heart. John had, luckily, been anticipating that, and had a fraction of a second to move before the shot rang out. The bullet missed John's organ, but didn't fail to make contact with his own shoulder.

John did not even feel it at first. He staggered backwards, watching blood trickle from it. He knew it was because of the adrenaline, but it was still unbelievably surreal. His body began to buckle in on itself. He hoped the bullet had not hit an artery. If it had, though, he'd most likely be bleeding much, _much_ harder. He wondered still if the bullet could've hit the brachial plexus. It was impossible to tell from this angle… Everything felt as if it were in slow motion, and he landed unsteadily on his hands and knees. He looked up at Greg, who was staring at him in horror. "John!"

Greg was surrounded once again by the Nazis, four this time, and he was struggling harder than ever. He kept shouting, but John could no longer really hear it. He felt woozy, like he was falling asleep. But he could not feel any pain… Someone hit Greg with the butt of a gun, and his eyes rolled back, his body falling into the cold, steel-cable arms of one of his own captors.

John tried to call out, unable to tell if he was actually making noise. He tried to scramble forward to Greg. He knew that being knocked out was much more dangerous than it seemed. If he didn't wake up in the next few minutes, he could suffer serious brain damage. But everything was blurring, and a warm sensation spread across John's chest. Before he realized it, everything around him tipped, and John was lying on his side.

He had to keep his eyes open.

A blurry figure appeared over John. The way he stood, relaxed, hands in his pockets, seemed uncharacteristic of a soldier, or an officer, especially a Nazi. He just stood there, staring. Finally, he crouched over John, putting his face a mere foot from John's.

He didn't look German. On the contrary, his hair was dark, and his eyes wide. They were sunken in and black, like a hound's. He was grinning with child-like, almost... _insane_ amusement.

"Ooh, this one's a fighter, isn't he?" He didn't sound German, either. Instead, he had a thick Irish accent. It was slow, drawling, and with a constant tone of mocking.

"Don't kill him," he said to someone John could not see. "That'd be too easy; in fact, make certain that he lives. We can have more fun with him that way."

John sneered, trying to respond, but could bring no words to his lips. This man, though, only chuckled again. "What's his name?"

"John Watson, _Herr_."

"John Watson. Oh, well, Johnny-boy, we'll make you pay for your naughtiness in a much more…" his voice dropped down low and threatening, "exciting way, I promise."

He straightened up, but right as he went to step away, John reached out with his uninjured arm, grabbing the man's leg with all the strength he could muster. "Why the _hell_ do I matter s-so much?"

The man smiled. "Oh, honey. You don't. I just _like_ it."

He laughed, and shook off John's grasp easily, and then kicked John in his injured shoulder. Whether the bullet was still in John's shoulder or not, suddenly, he felt the injury. It was not confined to his shoulder, no; the pain spread through him like fire, and he cried out through his teeth, gripping the wound. It was impossible to formulate coherent thoughts. He wasn't human, he was an animal in absolute agony. He wished to just pass out to escape it all. Would he wake up? This man seemed to count on it. But a tiny voice said that he didn't care; he just wanted to be rid of the fire. In amongst all of this, the man overhead stood chuckling, the swastika on his arm glaringly obvious. Finally, he walked leisurely out of sight. "Just send him with the others."

Something hit John's head, cold and metal, and his skull rang before he lost consciousness, too.


	4. And It Will Be Sooo Much Fun

_Hope you guys are enjoying the story so far as much as I am enjoying writing it! RxR!_

* * *

**This Is the Chronicle of the Falsely Accused.**

**Chapter Four: "And It Will Be Sooo Much Fun..."**

**June, 1940. Dulag Luft (German Prisoner of War Transit Camp), Germany.**

John's mind kept slipping in and out of consciousness for the remainder of the night. When he was awake, he could see the stars above him, and the trees moving past in indication that he was moving. In a rickety truck, no less. The engine was loud and rumbling, and the vehicle shook constantly, jostling around John's pounding head and his piercing left shoulder wound. Thankfully, his chest was paining him significantly less. The bruising mustn't have been as severe as he'd feared.

But would this ride ever end?

When dawn rose, the trucks finally halted, and the men were hurried off. A gruff Nazi took John by his right arm, and yanked him to his feet. John could hardly see from the head rush and the pain of the forceful jolt. It took all of his concentration to not keel over on the bed of the truck. He was pushed to the edge of the vehicle, and shoved off with a shout. Though the drop was only a couple feet, John barely could keep himself standing when he landed. He cursed loudly, unknowing if the Nazis would understand him or not. Much more of this, and he'd be throwing up all over the lot of them.

He laughed coldly to himself._ They deserve it, and much more._

He was pulled into a sea of other prisoners that pushed him along rather violently, primarily made up of British and French. Most of his thought was dedicated to not feeling the fire in his chest, though his eyes watered with each step. This wound needed to be cleaned, and soon. For God sakes, he didn't even know if the bullet was still inside.

Slowly, the crowd turned into a silent, unevenly marching column of men, urged on by Germans carrying machine guns in the front, back and sides. John was barely holding himself up, and he held his arm tightly to him in order to not let it jostle around. He felt dizzy and overheated, and after tripping over the men in front of him a number of times, a soldier on his right slung John's arm over his shoulder, and wrapped his own hand around John's side, holding him up for the entire walk. John let his head hang down in exhaustion.

They were led to the doors of a long, low wooden building, and passing through the doors each man was forcibly given a folded gray uniform. Tucking it under his arm, John and the soldier holding him steady were guided inside.

It looked like a locker room. There were dividing walls on both sides, creating several small rooms off of the hall, and each was lined with little metal hooks. John was half-carried into one, as a whistle blew shrilly.

"Change out of all of your own clothing immediately, and put on ze issued uniforms. Do not attempt to hide anything on your person. Keep all of your original clothing and items vith you, and line up in ze main hallway after changing. Your person vill be searched; your things inspected. You are allowed to keep your previous attire if you vish, but any guns or anything else capable of being used as a veapon vill be confiscated. Once checked, move at once to ze back of ze hall."

John had a little help from the Frenchman, who efficiently removed the dressing from John's shoulder, and unbuttoned John's jacket. "I've got it now, thanks," he muttered, and turned away from the other men uncomfortably as the soldier nodded and left him alone. He awkwardly shrugged out of his jacket, and proceeded to change out of his uniform and into the rough coveralls everyone had been issued. As he changed, he looked at his bullet wound. Dark, reddish-brown blood was clotted around it, and smeared across his shoulder. It was difficult to make out what he was looking at, exactly. It _really_ needed to be inspected.

Gathering up his belongings into a bundle, he hurried back into the hall, averting his eyes and eager to remove himself from the half-naked strangers. He got into line, standing at attention. A Nazi was coming down the row, and for a moment, John thought it was the Irishman with the black-hound eyes.

He felt goosebumps break out over his skin. He hadn't seen him since the encounter when he was shot. Not that he wanted to. But who was he? He in no way fit in with the other Nazis, yet it was clear that he had significant power.

Ironically, that man was very much the reason John had not been killed.

He cleared his throat, shaking himself from his thoughts, as a stout man in Nazi uniform approached. He yanked John's items from his hands, smirking and raising his bushy eyebrows at John as he winced. John clenched his teeth, tapping his fingers against his thigh. The man shook out the uniform, finding nothing but blood stains and the beat-up watch from Harry. The gun had been long taken away. Grumbling, he dumped it all back into John's arms, and marched off for the next inspection.

"Bloody bastard," John muttered to himself, making his way to the end of the hall.

"Into formation!" someone bellowed. The prisoners were lining up like nervous mice, but John himself was more ticked off than anything else, and made sure to take his own sweet time getting into position at the back of the group. One officer glared at him, but still said nothing.

_ I'll bet the Irishman's put me on their radar. _

John peered around the hall, still looking for a familiar (and friendly) face. There was no sign, however, of anyone he knew. No Greg, no Mike. Pursing his lips, he turned and faced ahead, ignoring the pain in his shoulder as best as he could, and soon the Germans were pushing them all from the hall, on their way again.

* * *

John only knew how long he'd been in the cell because the food arrived at the same time every day. Wretched coffee in the mornings, tasteless soup in the afternoon, and gritty black bread in the evening. Three days. Only once had a German come in, to question him and record his answers on a pre-made form. The walls of the cell were made of wood, and the window in the thin door was far too small to see much of the activities outside. Aside from his one visit, an officer would pass by occasionally, but other than that, there was only suffocating silence.

He spent the days on the lumpy cot, getting more and more frustrated with each. He could feel anger boiling up inside him, mainly because he had yet to receive any medical treatment. He wanted to get up and pace the cell. Even more, he wanted to punch something, but he was too weak for either. Every day he felt dizzier, and he could feel a heavy fever settling over him like a wool blanket.

His wound was open, and it still, on occasion, bled across his chest. It was growing consistently more inflamed, and after the initial fiery agony from the bullet had subsided, a dull, infected pain was beginning to grow in its place. Even worse, it had become difficult to move his left hand normally. He was almost certain the bullet had reached his brachial plexus. He'd inspected the wound as much as he could, even attempted to clean it, but he had nothing to do so with. There was no exit wound, and so the bullet was still lodged inside his shoulder.

* * *

John had another "visitor" that evening, if you could call it that.

"Get up," said the German, standing in the doorway. John opened his eyes, trying to focus on him with some difficulty.

John raised an eyebrow. "Why? So you can shoot me again?" he slurred. "It's about time, I mean, this one's sure getting _stale_."

His voice was as cutting as he could make it, though fever was hitting him full force. The man stood for a moment, brewing, before he marched forward, pulling John from the cot by the collar of his coveralls, and pulling him from the room. John felt a freezing set of handcuffs shut around his wrists. He didn't struggle; he couldn't have if he'd wanted to. He was stumbling behind the German all the way out of the barrack as it was, cursing as the man tugged him along, barely capable of holding his weight.

Outside, the sky was the soft pink of evening, and the air was warm and humid. Or maybe it was just him. The Nazi slowed down, and shortly, he and John were walking down a thin road between two long buildings, up to a smaller one at the end. It was constructed much better than the other buildings, and the familiar red and white flag hung grotesquely over the front.

John was shoved in through the open door, before the Nazi hurried away in the opposite direction. He was left stumbling in an office lined with several doors on the other walls. Straightening himself up, he blinked and cleared his throat, trying to get his bearings. He was a little too close to falling unconscious, and searched for something to lean his weight on, but found nothing. Reaching backwards, he found the doorway, and leaned gratefully against the wall. Taking deep breaths, he suddenly became aware of the officers standing at attention, watching him. No one said a word for several seconds.

John finally huffed sarcastically. "At ease."

The men's heads all snapped up. He could see their jaws clenching in anger and embarrassment. He was starting to enjoy this. It was clear he wasn't going to be killed, and so he felt his fear draining, to be replaced with a sort of recklessness. He giggled to himself. Maybe the fever was just making him crazy.

Clearing his throat, he pushed away from the wall and strolled past them as casually as he could, heading towards a chair on the opposite wall, until one of the doors to his left flew open, and a tall officer marched out. He stopped in front of John, who gulped at the obvious "no-funny-business" expression in the German's piercing eyes.

"Vatson?"

John tried his damndest to keep from snickering. "That'd be me, yes."

"Come vith me for questioning."

_After that form you had me fill out?_ But John kept his mouth shut.

He followed the officer through the wooden door into an office with a desk and chairs on either side, the one for the interrogator clearly of higher quality. Not needing a cue, he sat down in the chair for the prisoners, his chin up in determination. He cleared his throat.

Minutes went by, and John's heartbeat slowly quickened as he became more and more certain as to who his interrogator would be.

The sound of footsteps approached the door, slow and relaxed, just like the first time. And then, the man sidled into view, dark hair groomed, black eyes alert, and a little smile across his features. He sat, and already seemed to be having fun; like a child filled with excitement for his favorite television program. His eyes were flooded, though, with underlying malice.

"John Watson," he chuckled. "How's your arm?" It wasn't really a question, but a command for an answer.

His throat felt suddenly restricted. Something about this man scared John, on a much deeper, subconscious level. His hand was shaking slightly, and he slid it into his pocket, and simply nodded gruffly.

The dark-eyed Irishman nodded to the officer in the room, who tossed him a file, which he caught easily and flipped open. It was the form that a different officer had filled out in John's cell the other day.

"John Watson, Doctor, born in England, 27 years old, unmarried, blah blah blah…" He looked up at John. "You're very boring. At least, I thought you were." He sighed. "Everything around here's boring. I thought that wouldn't be the case, you know. 'The War to End All Wars.' …Still ordinary. Even in a place of 'great' strategies and absolute _chaos_," he bubbled with the thought of it, "everyone's stupid. You're especially stupid, Johnny."

John smiled in ill-concealed anger. "Is that why I'm here? For you to insult me?"

"No, no, no, don't be even _more_ stupid." His eyed widened like he was going to congratulate John on winning a prize. "You're here- and alive, in fact- because your stupidity isn't boring. Your stupidity makes you reckless; _that's_ new. Everyone else is so stuck on _survival_. You're here because you'll be much more interesting alive than dead. I plan on keeping you around, shall we say, as my little _toy. And it will be sooo much fun, don't you think?"_

A chill went down John's spine. Fantastic. This man had just made the point that he had complete control over John's fate as a German prisoner. And he was going to put John through absolute hell to see him try and fight back, just to see him eventually break.

And though that was exactly what this man wanted, what he was counting on, John _would_ fight back. He had no other choice. He would not resign himself to sitting around and letting himself be tortured until this man got a reaction. That would never happen.

The man started talking again, with a surprisingly lighter tome. "But technically, you're here for an interrogation!" He grinned, wiggling his eyebrows and leaning back, enjoying watching John as a sweat broke out across his brow. "So! Are you aware of any offensive or defensive plans of the British or French armies against Germany or any of its allies?"

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_A/N: Screw it, I'm just going to put author's notes at the end too, it's much more convenient. Sherlock will definitely be entering the story in the next chapter or two, don't worry. ;) I'm hoping to have the next chapters up sooner than normal, because I want to get into the real action of the story._

_Reviews are appreciated, &amp; stay tuned!_


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